


Actually, It’s Pronounced ‘ha-Meesh’

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Without a Clue (1988)
Genre: Anglo-Indian Relations, Gen, Historical References, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27672995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Watson and Kincaid (aka “Holmes”) navigate racism, class distinctions, religious discrimination and the nature of ethnic identity in the Victorian Era as well as in 3GAB. This story is an exploration of a discussion amongst some Holmestice participants concerning an Anglo-Indian Watson.
Relationships: Kincaid & Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 15
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	Actually, It’s Pronounced ‘ha-Meesh’

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sans_patronymic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/gifts).



His first words upon charging into our flat were, “Which of you gen’l’men is Masser Holmes?” 

The hired gun or, in this case, hired fists, arranged his massive silhouette, exaggerated by his bundling against the late-December chill, into his most intimidating pose. He would never know the truly vexing problem for me had been not his threatening stance but the ever-present, deeper implications of his simple query. How impossible to answer! Was Kincaid in fact Holmes, or was I? For some years now, I had been the brains behind Sherlock Holmes and my friend his public face. However, before I had the opportunity to wax philosophical on the nature of identity in some convoluted internal monologue, “Holmes” raised his pipe and gave the man a languid smile.

But before I speak any more of that fateful day, and how it nearly brought about the end of a friendship as great in reality as it is in fiction, I must tell you how it all began.

The year was 1877, and I had enrolled in the University of London. My studies were progressing quite well, and I was on my way to becoming a physician, an honorable profession and a path I had set upon from childhood, when yet another instructor suggested I join the armed forces. Become an army surgeon. That was not in my future, certainly! They all presumed to know my thoughts on the matter, for what Englishman wouldn’t wish to serve his country against those seeking to tarnish the glory of Britannia? 

But why should I defend the Empire over in Afghanistan? If I were a braver man, I would have declared myself no fan of the Empire, and, in fact, no Englishman at all. 

I was born in Multan, the City of Saints. 

In 1848, in what would eventually become the Punjab province, the Bombay European regiment was attacked by a party of Mulraj's irregular troops, as well as a large mob of city-dwellers. Wounded officers and a scattered number of accompanying soldiers were rescued by Sardar Kahan Singh Mann and taken to a mosque outside of the city. My father was one of these soldiers. 

The officers were murdered by the mob the following day, but Henry John Watson had already set out for the nearest village, wishing to be as far from the rest of the troops as possible. A defector, yes. My father, burnt by the harsh sun (having discarded most of his uniform in an effort to trade protection from the elements for protection from enemy combatants), had been found. To his good fortune, it had been by my uncle, a compassionate man who offered the stranger food and shelter within his home. It was there where former Ensign Watson would meet my mother. 

My brother, Henry Shibel Watson, was born the following year, and I, John Hamish Watson, three years later. My second given name is an Urdu one, and I share it with my uncle. In University, I had taken to using a simple ‘H’ to avoid scrutiny, though I came to realise such fears were baseless, for the spelling was identical to the Scottish variant of James. The knowledgeable reader who might recognise my brother’s second name as meaning ‘son of the lion’ would be correct in assuming that my mother, Najeedah, was indeed the lioness, though not only in name. She was strong, brave, fierce, determined, and above all, protective of her two sons. After my father died, she carved out a life for us. We, with all the selfishness of young male lions out to conquer our own prides, abandoned her to seek our fortunes in London. 

The sun never set upon the British Empire, but while that cesspool named London liked to think itself luminous, it cast an ugly shadow upon the lands it had overtaken. The Empire was a boot upon the neck of my country, turning it into nothing more than a convenient warm climate in which to grow cotton for its miserable mills, churn out an ample supply of tea for its upper-class twits, and plough farmland under for poppy fields with which to ruin yet more civilisations, for Britain was the only nation worthy of their proprietary God's favour. I had seen my uncle refuse to bite the cartridge of the Enfield rifle, contaminated with pig’s fat — haram. Had seen the deaths of villagers on both sides during the Great Rebellion.

And yet.

And yet the year after my instructor's suggestion, I found myself stationed in Candahar. My skin, once pale enough to allow me to freely participate in all aspects of English society without so much as a single doubtful glance, was now as brown as a nut. 

I had been, in hindsight, an idiot. I had thought I could change things from within. It had been my intention to become a voice for justice, in addition to a fine physician, and with my impeccable military credentials I could wield greater influence and make what I considered essential changes at the intersection of the medical and legal professions. Yes, I was ambitious, but this is an ambitious age, and there are reforms waiting to be made and causes in need of a champion.

Unfortunately, what I got for my pains was an ever-expanding league of suspicious “gentlemen” who wondered if I was to be trusted. One never learns one’s lesson though, for no sooner had I been invalided home as a result of a treachery I wish to leave firmly in my past (I shall only say that I would have been killed if not for my dear friend Bill Murray), than I once more attempted to change a powerful organisation from within. This time, it was Scotland Yard. 

This had not been my intention upon arriving home, a wounded and weak husk of the man I once was. No. I had intended to convalesce, and in time open my practice. Something less exacting than surgery. I considered branching out to optometry, for I knew of an optometrist who had a large enough purse to be comfortable and still pursue other avenues of interest. (One of those interests was editing, which would serve me well in the future, but I am getting ahead of myself.)

It was my brother who sealed my fate.

A dark man in a dark alley facing dark times. How could it have gone well for him? He was arrested upon suspicion of burglary. Far from agile, my brother could not possibly have scaled the building he had been accused of entering. His shoes were caked with mud, and yet none appeared upon the pale oriental carpeting beneath the broken third storey window. Those were the glaring issues, and there were at least six other points that were less obvious, but observable if one had taken but a moment to actually observe. The local law enforcement was blind to it all in their joy at having found someone near to the crime scene to blame. Eventually, they released him, but not until after he had lost his job as a woodworker. 

Word spread amongst the other tradesmen that he had been accused of theft, and no one would take the chance of having him in a client’s home. Just like that, his hard-earned sobriety vanished. He was back on the street, having pawned everything he owned. I managed to find his pocket watch in a shop window of Saxe-Coburg Square. It had been a parting gift from our mother (having belonged to our father) when we had both set off to seek our fortunes together in London. I purchased it and was debating returning it to him with full knowledge that it would be pawned again within a fortnight, only to learn by way of a nondescript article in the Times that it was now mine to keep. He had removed himself from this world. Not solely by his own hand, but with the aid of strong drink and a far too cold night. They found him in an alley, so very near the one where he had been arrested years ago.

I knew that there was far more to my brother's misery than an improper arrest, for his life had taken a sharp turn for the worse ever since he had left Multan, whereas mine had improved with each passing year. I knew all too well the differences between us, and I am no longer ashamed to admit that a penchant for drink and gambling was not one of them. He had had great difficulty finding work; I had no such issues. He was four years older, a great deal stronger, and his skin several shades darker than my own.

I also knew that there were far too many others like him out there, harassed consistently by the local constabulary. Brought in for questioning, often kept overnight without any concern for the effect upon their lives, when they were so very clearly innocent to anyone who bothered to conduct anything close to a proper investigation. If only the police sought out the true culprits, instead of merely making the easiest arrests. If only the criminals were brought to justice. 

I have spent a great deal of time pondering this, so before you judge me as false for my actions as a soldier for the Empire and an ally of the police force, know this: I never asked for the advantage of concealment, but having been given the ability to fit so readily into English society, to not use it for the best possible purpose seemed nothing short of an abomination. As I said previously, it is a given that one who wishes to make a difference requires a certain degree of social status. I participated in gentlemen’s clubs as well as military organizations, expanded my medical practice, and associated with a great many influential people. I had a lofty goal in mind, to quietly steer influential persons toward progressive milestones, not least among them racial equality and freedom for my homeland. I could speak to these powerful men as if I were one of them, though I knew I was not. Would never be. 

I saw how they treated their servants, how too they spoke of the masses in British India: uneducated, untrustworthy, and spiritually empty. To me, it was the finest example of projection I have ever known. 

I hated every moment of it. The more I wished to be subtly steering the ship of state by slowly opening the minds of its representatives, the more I found myself with windless sails. I not only faced the daily insults thrown upon my people, but the sickening knowledge that if these dignitaries were to be suddenly made aware of my lineage, every last one of them would proclaim me to be the exception. Oh, how I would be worthy of praise for having soared above the limitations of my birth! At one point, I was not certain which would be the worse upon their theoretical discovery: to be cast out for my deception or to be praised as ‘not like the rest of those Indians’. Lest you think these my only grievances (and I am in no way seeking to diminish the grievances I have thus far aired) I also did not enjoy the socialisation in and of itself. I am not the gregarious creature I would later see myself portrayed as upon the stage once our fame had spread far and wide. “Holmes” and his assistant Watson’s fame, that is.

Still, there was no denying I was in possession of coveted skills, and I longed to help the worthy within Scotland Yard. Perhaps even to hinder the unworthy? So long as I stayed out of the official force as a consultant, I could take or reject cases as I saw fit. But my time in the army, as well as my time in the “finest” of clubs with the “finest” of men, had taught me one very important thing: as an Anglo-Indian man, I would always have enemies. Since the Rebellion, we were no longer considered simple children in need of guidance, but violent adults in need of ruthless suppression. The men who had worked to ensure my near doom in Afghanistan might have remained in India, but England had an ample supply as well, ever ready to take up the same cause.

Oh, I was thought a respectable Englishman. Of that there was no doubt. But should I upset someone at Scotland Yard by going against a well-loved theory, I was but a hair’s breadth away from discovery; a quick trip to the hall of records would reveal additional papers which documented my mother’s name, my place of birth. I needed to work safely, and the simplest way to do so was to provide anonymous letters to the Yard. But if they were anonymous, how could I build upon my prior successes, establish my credibility, foster a reputation? I would require a false name. 

I much admired Oliver Wendell Holmes: medical man, tireless reformer, and inventor of the hand stereopticon. His series of essays entitled, _At the Breakfast Table,_ was often at my own breakfast table, as I convinced myself it would be fine to read just one more chapter before beginning my workday. Yes, I was a great admirer of ambition. I had considered using this name for some time, but it was seeing a book on London entitled _Holmes’s Great Metropolis: or, Views and History of London in the Nineteenth Century,_ which had prompted me to finally make the decision. Whose name could be more British than he who wrote the book on London? The first name of Sherlock came from a cricketer I had spotted in the newspaper. A truly British sport, providing a truly British name.

I scoured the papers and clandestinely visited the scenes of various crimes; I then sent my deductions by letter, signed Sherlock Holmes. It just so happened that Inspector Gregson was a patient of mine, and I made the grave error of asking him about the Paxton case, which I had been following closely. I let slip that the official cause of death, drowning, was impossible. Of course, the information I had based that conclusion on was hardly public knowledge, so, in panic, I mentioned the theory was not my own but rather that of Mr Sherlock Holmes, a patient of mine. Gregson recognised the name, of course, but played it close to the vest and asked if he might meet with the gentleman. I was about to claim he was a recluse, but then reconsidered. I just needed someone to portray “Holmes” for a single face-to-face meeting — or so I thought. 

Earlier, while investigating that very case in a less-than-pleasing neighborhood, I saw a man in what passed for a park going through a rather convoluted Shakespearean repertoire. He wasn’t exactly good. In fact, he was quite horrible. But he cut a tall, lean figure and looked and sounded — well, at the risk of revealing my single-mindedness at the time, quintessentially British. The man practically reeked of tea and biscuits. After his soliloquy, I asked to speak with him about a private performance.

We chatted at a nearby pub, where I discovered he was a bit of a womaniser, a gambler, a drunkard and, most importantly, all too eager to put one over on Scotland Yard. Apparently, he had some friends who had been arrested for pickpocketing, though I rather suspected from his tone that they had been guilty of the offense. He relished the opportunity to transform himself into a somewhat pompous man of means with all the answers for the sake of fooling an officer of the law. 

His name was Reginald Kincaid, and he came up with a great many features to round out Holmes’ character. He called it a “backstory” and claimed it was essential to his craft. These additions included a large and self-important brother who worked in “a minor position” for the government, a talent for the violin, and — as he insisted such a brilliant man could not be without one — a fatal flaw. 

“Hubris? Hubris always keeps the great ones in line. The Greek tragedies, you know. Knew what they were doing, the Greeks. You’re Greek yourself, yeah?” 

It was a sharp reminder that my complexion was still darker than the average gentleman's, a fact which he had interpreted as my belonging to some slightly more exotic European stock. I might very well have some Greek ancestry, if one considered the fact that Multan had been conquered by Alexander the Great in 326 and went on to become one of India’s greatest trading centres, but I shook my head. He hardly seemed to notice, going on about the nature of the flawed hero. “Hubris is dull. Of course he would have hubris! All geniuses have hubris! I certainly have hubris!” He declared that this Holmes fellow should have some secret vice as well as, well, hubris. I nodded, absentmindedly. At least he was dedicated.

“I rather like this fellow!” he proclaimed over another round. (I skipped the pint and eyed the pot pie questioningly. In my younger, rebellious years I had thrown away nearly all the prohibitions of my Muslim upbringing and took up alcohol. I have since discovered that that had not been a wise choice on my part. Pork, however, was something I still preferred to avoid.) “This,” he slurred, “is its own reward! I’ll do it for free.” He pulled out an old, battered manuscript and began making notes upon it about “this Sherlock Holmes fellow.” I had no intention of holding him to a drunken promise, but I was much relieved he had embraced the part with such enthusiasm. 

Kincaid believed the local police no more trustworthy than I did, albeit for different reasons. His disdain for anything with so much as a speck of authoritarianism was solid, and he insisted that Holmes himself should not worship the aristocracy by any means, thinking himself better than they, but he wanted the man to have a drive to earn a good standing and to have achieved success. I agreed readily, for that had been his purpose, to command the respect I feared I would find short-lived. I discovered that respect was something Kincaid lacked as well.

I may have been on precarious ground, but I was a professional. A medical man. A soldier. Kincaid was an actor, which ranked amongst the least favorable of professions. I quickly learned that to him it was the only option. It was art. He would often speak of “Shadow of Death”, his greatest performance to date, in these terms. A play ahead of its time. The world was not yet prepared for such a work.

That, dear readers, was our humble beginning. It wasn’t long before another inspector, a G. Lestrade, sent a telegraph to my office requesting assistance; this time I provided him with a calling card for Holmes and an address. We would share lodgings at Baker Street.

It brought Kincaid such joy to portray Holmes, and, frankly, he was made for the role. That did not stop me from calling the man an idiot on several occasions. When I once did toss him to the kerb in anger, he met my fury with his own. When I asked him to come back (as he had proven to be crucial, for no one would even deign for Watson to take notes for ‘Holmes’ to review later!) he looked me square in the eye and said, “I would rather waltz naked through the fires of hell.” 

He came back eventually. I knew he would. I did spend a great deal of time being furious with him, and to be honest, I had little reason for it. He was an excellent Holmes. And when he was out of his depth, which was most of the time, he found ways to let me sound intelligent in my own right. So what if he didn’t know the difference between a mamba and a mambo? He could exude charm and captivate a room, and he occasionally improvised spectacularly. 

As my practice diminished, in no small part due to my own neglect, I realised that solving crimes was a fundamental part of my nature, something far more than the hobby I had once thought it to be. Our fame spread throughout the world to the point where even my family on the Sub-Continent — the only place I had kith or kin — had heard of Holmes and Watson. The charade was tiresome at times, and the public was far more mesmerised by Holmes than me. I was almost saddened by the death of Professor Moriarty, who knew who the true mastermind was. (In truth, perhaps I should omit “almost”, but I knew the world was a far better place without him in it.) And when “Holmes” offered to retire and to turn the business over to the Crime Doctor, as I had fancied myself (briefly, briefly, ever so briefly before coming to my senses) he had told the press his success was due to the valuable wisdom, keen insight, and extraordinary patience of his friend, Doctor Watson. How could we ever have a lasting disagreement? 

And so I return once more to the Harrow Weald Case, Stockdale, and Steve Dixie. 

I knew much of Steve Dixie before ever having met the man. Former boxer and current intimidator for Barney Stockdale, he had a reputation for being over-the-top, flamboyant to the extreme. He talked a big game, yes, but he was perfectly capable of backing it up with a powerful left hook. I admit, though, even when we ran afoul of Stockdale, I had not expected Dixie, resplendent as ever in his ridiculous loud gray check suit with a flowing salmon-coloured tie, to threaten us in our sitting room.

The cutting insults 'Holmes' hurled at Dixie gave me pause, to say the least. I told myself it had been no less heated when Dr Grimesby Roylott had invaded our home and grabbed our poker, only to have my friend meet his blustering malevolence with cool indifference. In truth, Kincaid's choice of words made me deeply uncomfortable. But any insult is fair game, is it not?

It is not. I looked at Kincaid and shook my head.

He paused, tried his best to sort it out on his own, then sighed in exasperation, “Oh go on, then! What did I get wrong this time? Should I not have mentioned Stockdale myself?” He gave a weak smile. “You didn’t say to bring him up, but you didn’t say _not to_ either, so if you are going to take issue with this, my good man, you really need to take into account that you cannot _possibly_ expect me to stick to the script when neither of us had anticipated someone would— ”

“You said you didn’t like the smell of him.”

“Indeed I did not. He had bathed in cologne to mask the odor of the boxing ring. Tell me our Holmes would not have noticed that? Surely you did. Hell, even I did, and that’s saying something.”

“I had.”

“Well,” he smiled as if the point had been deftly made and there was no more room for discussion, “There you are.”

“And then you stated that the last thing he needed… was more lip.”

“Insulting as well as accurate. I’m rather proud of that line. He hadn't been long out of the ring to manage to look like his face had been hit square on by a shovel.”

It was true. It was all true. There was no denying boxing had taken its toll on Dixie’s features. Yet, there was racial malice, without a doubt it was there. I could feel it beneath every justification. But Kincaid was right, in a way. Why should he not insult a bruiser who had been sent to threaten us? Showing anything resembling fear in the presence of criminals is always a poor move, and Kincaid knew how to handle himself in the streets. It was he who had insisted Holmes should not seem too genteel to fight and should have lost a tooth in a brawl. He must know defensive arts at the very least, and own his own weapon. Singlestick. Swordplay. (Kincaid was remarkably good at swordplay, as I was fortunate enough to have seen live at the Orpheum Theatre, and not in a stage performance.) Kincaid even insisted I add in that Holmes had gone more than a few rounds in the ring himself. I think he secretly wanted Holmes to be more like him as time went on. Kincaid was a fighter. Holmes was also a fighter, with words as well as fists. This was no time to hold back, and Holmes fought to win, so why should he play fair? I wanted to cry out, “Because he is noble, you idiot!” but perhaps he knew the character better than I. I remained silent.

I still hadn't mentioned the deepest cut. If I were to allow him, allow us, to get past this, I knew I must.

“You said,” I paused and gathered my courage. “You said ‘Were you born so? Or did it come by degrees?’”

“He was holding his fist beneath my nose. I felt it bore some scrutiny.”

“It— ” How to explain this? I looked upon my own hand. “Sometimes,” I said carefully, “it comes by degrees, and is also lost, by degrees.”

“Well, I had no such prior knowledge. It simply seemed the sort of cold observation he might make, you see. Staring at ‘is fist like a specimen t’be observed. Turn the tables right on ‘im.”

I could hear his accent slipping back into his native Cockney. Was this something my friend would say himself, would think, or was he merely playing the part of a self-absorbed genius who thought of little else except solving elaborate puzzles? I couldn’t tell. Having said such things, could I continue to act as if they were of no consequence? Had I not done a similar thing in reverse… allowed my complexion to change by degrees until I was deemed “suitable”? Had I not used that to fight against the men who had been allies during our Rebellion? Could I use my perceived race to benefit myself, and was that different from Kincaid having Holmes insult Dixie to gain an advantage over him? It was too much. I needed to clear my head. I left without uttering another word.

It was far too cold for a long walk, and I had not given enough thought to buffering myself against the chill, so I turned 'round before reaching Regents Park. I stared idly at shop windows as I made my way back. I had been foolish to leave the warm sitting room and longed for a hot cup of tea, reminding myself to omit the shot of whiskey. Whatever I was seeking, I would not find the answer at the bottom of a bottle, or by peering through the frosted glass of shop windows. My constitutional had done little to ease my mind, save make it clear I needed to go back home.

I let myself in quietly and glanced at Kincaid, who had apparently decided to try one of Holmes’ more commonly-illustrated thinking poses to see if it was of any assistance. I couldn’t help but smile. He was not overly fond of tobacco, but still he curled himself up in his chair, knees drawn up to nose, eyes closed, black clay pipe thrusting out. I was not certain which story it had been, but I did recall having described this particular pose as resembling some strange bird. Kincaid opened his eyes and looked at me. 

“I fear I have made a grave error, but I am far too dim to determine in what manner I have done so.”

“It is nothing, old chap. Do not concern yourself with it.” I would try to move on. 

“So there is an _it_ with which to be unconcerned. I knew there was!”

“You are improving, my friend.” 

There was a moment of silence where I could almost hear the gears turning within his head. At last he said, “You are committed to the plight of the Negro. You have retained your portrait of Henry Ward Beecher, though it still remains unframed. I am ashamed to say in all our years together I do not know your age, but I do know you were likely a quite young man during the American conflict. For whatever reason, that issue remains dear to your heart. Am I correct?”

“That is true. But that is not why your words were distressing to me.”

“I will wait.” He stretched out his long legs towards the fire.

There was no point in being anything but direct. “I was born in 1850, in the Punjab province in northern India. My mother was native to that land, and my father was an English soldier, stationed somewhat near to where I later served, myself. I favour my father. My brother was not of a complexion that could possibly escape detection, as I am. Though if you had seen me upon my return from service after spending countless hours under the merciless sun, you would no doubt be startled by the transformation.”

“I see.” I do not believe he understood why my own experience would lead me to be discomfited by his treatment of Dixie. Perhaps he believed my race not inherently inferior, and thus incomparable to the situation at hand? Whatever his thoughts, he remained silent. When he spoke again, it was with careful deliberation. “I was unaware that those with known Indian ancestry were likely to serve as officers.”

“They are not.”

“You fooled them. Good. You fooled those pompous bastards into thinking you were equal to them. But they were mistaken. You actually weren’t.”

My heart sank. I don’t know why I had expected Kincaid to have been different. He was just as ignorant as the worst of them. An uneducated Cockney idiot, right from the start, but unlike myself he had made no attempt to hide it. That’s what he was when I first met him, and I should have known better than to have thought I—

“You were far superior.”

“I was what?”

“You were better than them. You never lost sight of your goal, pursuing a just world. You saw the steps required to get there and you took them and you never once doubted you could. Tell me, did they, being smarter than me, figure it out?”

“Some of them, yes.”

“Did they plot against you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wish you dead?”

“Of that I am certain.”

“And did you die?”

I smiled.

“I am not particularly good at the deduction thing, but I deduce you did not. Point for you. But more importantly, how else did you foil their plans?”

“What do you mean?”

“The bad ones. The ones who did things beyond the conscience of reasonable men. I know they were there. They are always there, amidst chaos and blood. I know you met them.”

“I… reported many men and I paid the price for it.”

“I'm certain you did. You never did tolerate injustice.”

“But I, but I fought on the wrong side. I should never have joined the service.”

Kincaid was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. “And I never should have said those things, about Steve Dixie. There are ways to insult one man without insulting others.” I thought he had finished, but he spoke again. “It was what I thought he would have said, but… it is also something I would have said. Does it — does it matter that it is not something I would say again?”

“For my benefit? So long as there is a man like me in the room?”

He stopped and thought for a moment. “I should like to think that I would not do so with consistency, but I do take your point to heart, Watson. Also, there could never be another man like you in the room.” 

He looked to see if his words had any effect. I will admit, I found it near impossible to keep hold of my anger, but I did not let go of my disappointment. In Kincaid for his words, but also in my own self. I had sought the approval of men from whom it had never been worth having. I had traded my family, my spirituality, my culture, my very identity in pursuit of the English ideal, in order to obtain an influence that seemed ultimately of little consequence.

He looked at the fire struggling to warm the room and added another bit of coal to bolster it, speaking into the flames. “But, in spite of that fact, there is often a need to deceive. I worked hard at being able to speak like Holmes. It is my own version of what you are doing, I suppose. Being something that I’m not so as to bring forth justice. Neither one of us is someone they would listen to without a bit of deception.”

“I didn’t do it. Pursue a just world. Make the reforms I wanted to make.”

“You speak as if your life is over, Watson. The curtain has not fallen. But even so, I would say that you have saved many an innocent from the gallows.”

“I suppose I have.”

“Ah, but perhaps you should pay me no mind, for I have it on good account that I, on occasion, speak without thinking, and wound those who matter a great deal to me.” He turned to face me. “I am sorry, my friend.”

“i accept the apology.”

The silence hung in the frigid air as Kincaid nodded curtly in what I believed to be a poorly-disguised attempt to conceal his relief. “Although,” he added, “If you should still prefer the word of others over mine with regard to your significance, I believe we need only pay a short visit to John Horner to set the record straight.”

Kincaid knew nothing of the history of my unhappy brother, and yet his mention of the plumber we saved from a sentence of theft years ago, during this very season, could not have been more appropriate. 

“My dear fellow, on this night, the darkest of the year, though you may call yourself dim, you have proven to be a conductor of light. I confess, I am very much in your debt.”

He spoke softly, again, to the fire as much as to me. “Perhaps it is enough, then, to continue on?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tremendous thanks to the folks who supported me in writing this and provided valuable feedback: Arete, Demellion and Anarfea. Also, a special thank you to my beta, Sanguinity, for trying to make me just a bit less grammatically identifiable for Holmestice. It didn’t exactly work, but I now have had a gentle schooling on punctuation.


End file.
